Scar
by Windswift
Summary: Sometimes the scars you carry aren't even your own. [3 part drabblish series based on a similar theme] [KuwabaraxYukina] [YusukexKeiko] [Kurama and Shiori]
1. Flame

Disclaimer: YuYu Hakusho belongs to Yoshihiro Togashi

A three-part drabble series based on a similar theme: "Sometimes the scars you carry aren't even your own."

_**Scar**  
Flame_

"Kazuma-san? You're staring."

Startled, Kuwabara's chin slipped off his palm as he realized that he had indeed been staring at Yukina. He flushed, stammering an awkward apology. The ice maiden gave him a curious look, then dumped another bucket of wet sand on the beach, freezing the water between the grains as she molded it to keep the castle's delicate shape intact.

If Urameshi had been there—and there were certain reasons why he didn't invite Urameshi and Yukimura with them—he would have made a snide comment about admiring certain parts of Yukina's swimsuit. But Kuwabara's eyes hadn't been lingering anywhere inappropriate at all, even if it embarrassed him to be caught staring.

Yukina pulled her hands back, laughing as the sand castle melted under the afternoon sun. She tried to freeze it into shape again, her hands flitting like her favorite little white birds as she shored up the sides and traced intricate towers with icy roofs. Watching her hands led his gaze back to her arms. They glowed pale in the bright light, no longer hidden under her kimono sleeves, the same healthy ivory as her shoulders, back, legs, and feet.

Being a hot summer day, they had decided to take advantage of the beach on Genkai's property, just the two of them, and put on swimsuits and sunscreen before packing a picnic and hiking to their spot. In the time between lunch and returning to splashing around in the water, he had declared that he, the great Kuwabara Kazuma, would make Yukina the finest sandcastle known to man, using only a flimsy bucket and his bare hands. As he watched her, though, he had to admit that her method worked much better.

He realized he was staring again, and lay back guiltily so he couldn't see, absently scooping a hole in the sand. He hadn't meant to stare, but it had surprised him, even though it shouldn't have, which startled and upset him even further. He hadn't forgotten, after all.

He couldn't forget, couldn't forgive Tarukane for what that bastard had done to Yukina. But his anger had drifted to the back of his mind all these years, buried behind the happiness and love, only to be brought jarringly to the foreground when she simply rolled up her sleeves or, like today, as she sat obliviously on the beach in her swimsuit.

Yukina waved a cheerful hand at him, giving him another glimpse of a pale forearm marred from burns. Kuwabara sat up to admire the finished sandcastle gushingly—she really had done a beautiful job, so talented and modest—all the while silently disgusted with himself that he could have possibly disregarded the years of torture she suffered. How could he have disregarded the scars, one of the first things he had noticed as they finally met face-to-face?

He had seen in her mind how wards had been used to burn the marks onto her skin. He had experienced, with his empathy, her pain and terror, her tears, and her helplessness. But Kuwabara had also seen her strength. Yukina continued to live life so simply and happily, holding no grudges and only seeking peace.

Still, he would never be able to forget or forgive that her first memory of humans would always be of Tarukane.

…

_-Windswift_


	2. Sword

Disclaimer: YuYu Hakusho belongs to Yoshihiro Togashi

The second part in a three-part drabble series based on a similar theme: "Sometimes the scars you carry aren't even your own."

_**Scar**  
Sword_

"If only I had been more responsible."

Had anyone who knew the boy heard those words uttered from Yuusuke's mouth, they surely would have laughed at him, long and hard. He wouldn't have blamed them. He knew full-well how irresponsibly he acted—and he didn't care to change that, now or ever. The outcome didn't appeal enough to make the effort worthwhile.

But while he didn't intend to convert his behavior to a model citizenship—or even a simply decent one—he still regretted a few things that had spawned from his inability to be serious.

"If only I had ditched class like I always did. If only I had blown off Takenaka and skipped out like every other day I come to school."

The irony intensified the guilt ten-fold. Hadn't it appeared reasonably responsible, giving in to Keiko's yelling and heading down to Takenaka's office for detention? But really, he had been acting stupid and childish, like the immature brat she always called him. Botan had flat-out _warned_ him that Hiei might pull something just minutes before.

But because Keiko was throwing a hissy fit, Yuusuke had abandoned her. Following a school rule he didn't give a damn about hadn't been responsible.

"If only I had walked Keiko home, even though she was pissed."

He had first noticed it on the way back from the warehouse, by the time they were nearly to Keiko's home. The adrenaline had begun to wear off—no more zombie mind-slaves to worry about, Hiei had been safely defeated and carted away by Botan, Keiko had been cured, and the shock of Kurama's sudden bloody arrival had begun to fade to the back of his mind. And so, never content with peace, Yuusuke had looked down at the girl in his arms to grumble that Keiko had put on a few pounds since the last time he'd rescued her.

And then he noticed the fine line right in the center of her forehead.

Like any sensible person, he had immediately panicked, nearly dropped her, and studiously poked and prodded the anomaly to ensure it was not the third eye returning. If that antidote had been faulty…

But the Jagan had vanished completely, save for that single remnant—a delicate scar tracing her skin. The thin line disappeared for a moment as Keiko scrunched up her face, coming to wakefulness again.

It had been too close for comfort. Why was he always so stupid and irresponsible? Why didn't he ever learn, even after it came back to bite him in the ass? Yuusuke regretted the fact that he hadn't changed for the better, and felt guilty that even now he still didn't feel like bothering to try.

What would he have to lose in order to get it through his thick head that if he wanted to protect the people close to him, if he wanted to make them his number one priority, he had to act like it?

And that thought scared him like nothing else. But even then, he still promptly forgot his misgivings again, the same way he never remembered the fine scar on Keiko's forehead until he had come too close to pull back.

…

_-Windswift_


	3. Glass

Disclaimer: YuYu Hakusho belongs to Yoshihiro Togashi

The third part in a three-part drabble series based on a similar theme: "Sometimes the scars you carry aren't even your own."

_**Scar**  
Glass_

Kurama couldn't sleep.

He uncurled from his balled-up position, lying flat on his back, his arms spread wide through the grass. He had been running since school ended that day, so he had gotten far enough away that the stars were clear in the sky and he could only smell the lingering presence of humans.

He pretended the excitement prevented him from sleeping. He ought to have celebrated himself into exhaustion, really—tomorrow Kurama revived from the dead. Not quite perfectly, and not quite entirely, because his soul had gotten fused into the human body's, but returning home would still be better than staying behind.

He would have given up on sleep hours ago and simply continued walking, but the child's night vision was miserably inadequate. So he had camped out in the field, listening to the grass rustle in the night, wishing his powers had returned enough that he could feel the plant life just by lying there.

His discomfort hadn't caused the sleeplessness; this he knew instinctively, even though he _was_ uncomfortable. It had nothing to do with the physical, and all too much to do with the mental. But it probably didn't help that Shuuichi had only slept outside a handful of times—trial runs, he told himself now after the fact, to make sure his body could handle the return to Makai—and tended to like blankets and other such amenities. His human spirit dulled the elation the fox should have felt at being so close to nature and freedom again.

He shifted again, restlessly. He couldn't lie still. The vague feeling of being haunted and hunted tormented him. Part of him wanted to run, as fast and as far as possible, until he no longer felt pursued. Another part whispered that if he simply went back, there would be no need for the uneasy feelings to chase him.

He had acquired a few scrapes on his arm as he'd made his way. He glanced at one of the fresher ones on the back of his hand, feeling it smart as he licked it. He closed his eyes, but the image didn't go away.

He couldn't sleep, because if he closed his eyes, he saw them. The scars on her arms. Shiori's smiling face, asking if he was alright, as if the blood dripping down her arms didn't exist. His stomach wrenched sickly; he knew what followed, the same as every other time he closed his eyes tonight, the same as every other time he had tried to leave. Kuronue's face, Kuronue's blood, Kuronue telling him to run as if it didn't matter.

The guilt ate at him.

He didn't simply see it, so opening his eyes didn't help. He could feel the blood running along his own arms, a warm, wet gush. The pain lancing across his skin and deeper—as sharply as if the bounty hunter had him battered and wounded again, as if he were dying.

Shuuichi's body was only that of a ten-year-old child's; it didn't handle the mental anguish well. He had already moved his campsite once tonight because he had gotten so sick and miserable.

He should have been exhilarated. He wanted to run away and go back home—he didn't want to stay here with this.

But he couldn't take the nightmares, and he couldn't sleep. If Shuuichi's night vision weren't so pitiful that he was likely to injure himself trying to return to Shiori, he would have already given up and set out. For perhaps the first time in his life, Kurama felt truly pathetic and broken.

He couldn't escape, and he didn't know why.

…

_-Windswift_


End file.
